


Laughter Lines

by The Librarina (tears_of_nienna)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Adulting, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Loving Marriage, M/M, Taxes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 16:05:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14216775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tears_of_nienna/pseuds/The%20Librarina
Summary: Grumpy thirtysomething Enjolras and Grantaire do taxes, argue about it, and are insufferably adorable.





	Laughter Lines

Enjolras wakes up to the creak of the kitchen floor. Which is odd, as he doesn't typically sleep in the kitchen.

Then again, he doesn't typically spend eight hours trying to do his taxes, either. He'd put his head down on the table and closed his eyes for a minute, only to discover that it did marvelous things for the headache that had been pounding at his temples...and now this.

The creaking floorboard means that Grantaire is home, which means it has to be after eight. Which means he's been asleep at the kitchen table for—two hours? He'll be lucky if he can move his neck at all.

The faucet squeaks, followed by the sound of water being _very carefully_ poured into a glass pot.

"I _know_ you are not making coffee at this hour," Enjolras says without opening his eyes.

A pause. "It's decaf?"

As though either of them would allow such an abomination to cross their threshold. "You're going to be up half the night."

"I know."

Enjolras lifts his head; his neck is exactly as stiff as he thought it would be. "Make some for me, too?"

Grantaire snorts. "What kind of self-centered bastard do you think you married?"

There are probably fifty different answers to that question, but instead Enjolras finds himself watching Grantaire's hands, the smudge of ink on his wrist and the nicked, tarnished ring he hasn't taken off in eight years. Enjolras' own ring doesn't look much better. They could get them cleaned up, he supposes, but he sort of likes the wear, the implications of it.

Grantaire pours two cups of coffee and mixes an obscene amount of cream into one cup before handing it off to Enjolras. It's too hot to drink, even with the cream, but he brings the mug to his lips anyway. It's perfect, scalded tongue notwithstanding.

Grantaire does nothing at all to his own coffee, and he sits down at the table next to Enjolras. "I'd ask how your day was, but I'm pretty sure I don't have to. Have you even _moved_ since I left this morning?"

He shrugs. "There was dinner somewhere in there. I'm almost sure of it."

Grantaire’s expression darkens. "Christ, Enjolras, we've _talked_ about this. You can't just let yourself get so focused on a project that you forget to take care of yourself."

"I ate, okay? Relax." The words come out sharper than he'd meant them to be. He curls his hands around the coffee mug and sighs. "Sorry. I'm just frustrated with all of this...I shouldn't take it out on you."

"Don't worry about it." Grantaire surveys the piles of paperwork. "So it's bad?"

"Mm-hm."

"Worse than last year?"

"Worse than last year and three years ago put together."

Grantaire winces. "As bad as the year we got married?"

"Not _quite_ that bad." At least they no longer have to file their state taxes separately. "They changed some things, so I couldn't use last year's return to make sense of it. And it makes me feel stupid-- _millions_ of people do this every year, so why can't I figure it out?"

Grantaire gives him a sidelong look, and Enjolras knows what he's going to say before he even starts.

"I'm not calling Bossuet."

"Why _not_?" Grantaire says, like this isn't an annual argument. "You know he'd be happy to help, and his clients never get audited. Just him." Six years running, in fact, despite his record of perfect honesty and flawless record-keeping.

"Because he'd get offended when I tried to pay him, and we'd end up arguing about it and then Joly and Musichetta would yell at me for hurting his feelings."

"I would also yell at you, if you hurt Bossuet's feelings."

"See?" Enjolras says. "Nobody wins."

"Then get a total stranger to do it."

"I'm not going to trust a _stranger_ to do our taxes."

"Seriously? They're all professionals. There's no point in torturing yourself with this stuff when there are other options."

"I can't just _give up—_ "

Grantaire rolls his eyes. "Here we go. You can't quit, you can't delegate, because blah blah blah principles and perseverance. The bottom line is, you're a stubborn _ass_ and you hate not being good at something."

"All of which you knew when you married me," Enjolras snaps.

Grantaire laughs, just a little. "Yeah. I did."

"Sorry," he says again. He takes a deep breath, realizing that the coffee has finished what the nap started, and his headache is nearly gone. He changes the subject. "Well, that's more than you wanted to know about my day. How was yours?"

"It was a Thursday," Grantaire mutters.

"Art History 110?"

"Yeah. I hate lecture classes."

"Really? Because I happen to know you're very good at lecturing."

"Funny." He takes a sip of his coffee. "I know it's not their fault, because the state of arts education in this country is appalling, but it physically pains me when they can't tell the difference between Magritte and Mondrian."

Enjolras gives him a sidelong glance and very carefully does not ask.

"They're _very, very different_ ," Grantaire explains gently.

"Yes, thank you, I got the gist."

"And it's worse than that, really. Most of the time I'm not teaching art history, I'm teaching straight-up _history_. How can you explain the genesis of Byzantine art to people who've never even heard of Byzantium?"

Enjolras listens to Grantaire complaining, he really does, but what he sees is the crinkle at the corner of Grantaire's eyes, the faint curve of his lips as he talks. He loves the way happiness has crept up on Grantaire over the last few years, and while there are still bad days—there will probably always be bad days—the contentment suits him, like the blazers and button-downs he wears to class every day.

Like the silver that's threaded into his hair, just at the temples.

Grantaire _hates_ the fact that he's starting to go gray, and Enjolras knows better than to mention how hot he thinks it is.

"...Maybe I'll just make it pass/fail," Grantaire is saying. "The final exam will be a picture of _The Treachery of Images_ and _Composition II_. If they can tell me which one is Mondrian and which one is Magritte, A-plus. Otherwise—"

Enjolras slides one hand into Grantaire's hair and kisses him. He feels Grantaire smile against his lips, and then he tastes the bitter black coffee on Grantaire's tongue for an instant before Grantaire pulls back.

"What was that for?" he asks.

"Do I need a reason?"

Grantaire's eyes narrow. "Is this about my hair again?"

"...No..."

"Oh, my god, you're a terrible liar. You never would have made it in politics."

"I know. It's just...I really like it." He can feel himself blushing, and Grantaire rolls his eyes.

"It's not fair," he grumbles, tugging at a lock of Enjolras' hair. " _You're_ not going gray."

"Yes, I am. You just can't see it as well."

"Right. One of these days I'll be up in the attic looking for the bicycle pump and I'm going to find the portrait that ages for you."

"And set it on fire?"

"Hell, no. I'll lock it away in a nice, climate-controlled vault for preservation." He pauses. "I might paint a curly mustache on it, first."

If that's a shot at Enjolras' complete inability to grow decent facial hair, then he'll allow it. "Asshole," he mutters, smiling.

This time, Grantaire kisses him first.

Eight years have given them comprehensive knowledge of each other's turn-ons, the exact places to touch or kiss or bite to make the other hard in his jeans. So Grantaire knows exactly what he's doing when he lets his lips trail along Enjolras' jawline to drag his teeth, very gently, over his earlobe.

Enjolras lets out a moan at a truly embarrassing volume and tips his head back to give Grantaire a better angle. When Grantaire finally pulls away, Enjolras very nearly climbs into his lap.

"What was that for?" Enjolras asks, when he recovers enough breath to speak.

Grantaire smiles. "I have it on good authority that I'm going to be up half the night _anyway_..."

"Oh, really?"

"Really." He stands, pulling Enjolras up with him. "Come on. Early night, let's go."

"I really ought to—" Enjolras gives the table a half-hearted look.

Grantaire's hand slides into Enjolras' back pocket and _squeezes_. "Get Bossuet to finish the taxes."

"Mm..."

"Buy him a bottle of that brandy he likes. Everybody wins."

"Everybody wins," Enjolras echoes.  "I like the sound of that." He pulls Grantaire close to kiss him again, and then leads the way to their bedroom.

**Author's Note:**

>   * Title from the Bastille song.
>   * Fic based on a prompt from a long-lost tumblr post that went something like this: Mature Themes: your otp has to do taxes and it's really frustrating and they bicker about it but they love each other so much. also they will both die someday.
>   * [The Treachery of Images](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Treachery_of_Images) is by Rene Magritte. [Composition II](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Piet_Mondrian#/media/File:Piet_Mondriaan,_1930_-_Mondrian_Composition_II_in_Red,_Blue,_and_Yellow.jpg) is by Piet Mondrian. There, now you can pass Grantaire's art history exam.
> 



End file.
